


Mercy

by MissWritesAlot



Series: Seven Times He Dreams of Fire [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, No really he actually is literally sitting there thinking about killing her, POV Sandor Clegane, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Sandor Clegane Swears, Sandor is Not Nice, Sandor is a grumpy puppy, Sandor is his own warning, Short One Shot, potential fodder for potential future actual fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 06:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15966803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissWritesAlot/pseuds/MissWritesAlot
Summary: Sandor Clegane is patiently waiting to take a life, and nothing is as it seems.





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> So, here is a little one-shot thing that has been playing around in my head a bit. I am a HUGE GOT nerd and The Hound is my absolute favorite. Depending on the response to this I might very well continue on to do something with a series containing some Sandor-centric action and of course, lots of medieval lovin'. As to whether or not I stick with this random ass OC I created or if I do finally decide to hop on the SanSan ship, only time will tell. Please do let me know what you think though! If you prefer you can imagine this to be an alternate version of Sansa? 
> 
> Fun Fact: Sandor was so easy for me to write it was almost scary. Did I do well?

The Hound did not fear death, but he did not chase dumbly at it’s heels. Which was more than he could say for the runt. The more time he spent silently observing her, the more convinced Sandor became that the girl was utterly, irretrievably mad.

Arms the size of saplings crossed his barrel chest as he settled into his seat. It would be a long night and he was content with his place by the fire. There, the flames would keep him wary and sharp. With three plump roasted chickens at one hand and a full wineskin on the other, he was as content as he would ever be. The wine wasn’t the quality he was used to in this little pisshole of an inn, but he doubted the owner kept a Dornish sour on tap. 

Sharp hazel eyes studied the slip of a woman currently cackling over her winnings. She was cross legged and barefoot upon a long table, a small mound of gold between her long legs. A fanciful man - and Sandor was surely not a fanciful man - might compare her to a little dragonling jealously guarding her treasure. An odd one to be sure. She wore breeches and a belted tunic like a man, and drank and swore like one too. 

**Dice.** Someone would have to have pig shit for brains if they were so tempted to lose their hard earned coin so readily. A single gold dragon could be the difference between life and death in the hard, long winter months. The chill in the air and a lifetime of experience told Sandor that the Stark’s were finally going to be right about something. Winter _was_ coming, and it didn’t give a single bloody fuck what banner you fought under. Those cold grasping fingers would take every single man, woman, and child unlucky enough to be in its path. 

Those worries were far, far away from this tiny and warm inn. The womanchild with the red-gold mane and freckles had a way of lighting up a room. She was a little she-beast, a heathen to her core. He could tell. Her tongue was as sharp and crude as his was, but unlike him she lacked the sword arm to back up her bold, cutting words. For all her lack of shoes and sense, she was doing a damned good job of bilking these shit for brains bastards out of their coin. 

Dainty hands rattled the dice inside the old chipped clay mug; she had a clever system. She let them win more often than she let them lose, but ultimately they lost more at once that way. He’d been reading body language his entire life - said life very much depended on being able to read the microexpressions and movement patterns of others. Something he’d learned throughout his training and battles is that everyone had a tell. Some men looked to the direction they were going to strike, others looked the opposite. Some men went for the obvious kill, others attempted to nick a lesser known artery or just go straight for the most armored bits in an attempt to throw him off balance. 

How any given opponent would strike depended on the kind of man his opponent was. This applied to everyday situations too, just like this one. She flexed her fingers right before she was fixing to be a little cheat. He couldn’t be sure how she managed to get the dice to roll just right at the right moment, though. 

If Sandor had a guess, she was playing with home-crafted loaded die and employed a bit of maneuvering to get the combinations of numbers she needed. She seemed the sort. Cheaters were right there with liars, and he _despised_ liars. Slippery cunts like the Imp and Baelish. Varys he respected in his own way, but he gave the eunuch a wide berth. Sandor was a viciously private and territorial man and loathed people sticking their noses into his business. 

Hours passed and the steady cricket song of late evening turned to the calm silence of deep night. There were still many patrons and whores mucking about, though. Sandor repeatedly had to send one particularly _interested_ whore away three times before the dumb bitch finally got the message. It had been a long time since he’d pulled his dagger on a woman; she’d reacted predictably enough. The whore had fled in terror but he got no satisfaction from her fear. 

Gregor would have, though. His older brother would have done a lot worse to the woman for annoying him, too. The Mountain tended to respond to needling with a fist or a sword; no thought, no remorse. The one thing he and his brother had in common other than their unusual size and ferocity was the lack of remorse. Regretting what needed to be done was senseless, useless. Killing was a necessary thing, and luckily a thing he was very good at. He also excelled at not _getting_ killed. 

What many did not know is that the Hound was more than a loyal guard dog to the King. He was the attack-dog, the beast in the night that hunted down the enemies of the Crown and slew them in their very beds. Most of the time he was told to kill the rest in the house as well, to avoid loose ends. 

The Queen was the one holding his leash on the less savory requests, of course. He loathed the Lannister bitch with all his being but she could make his life exceedingly difficult, and his existence had already been plenty difficult thank you. Not to mention she threatened to unleash the Mountain on unsuspecting villagers in the Riverlands if he didn’t comply to her every demand. Piss on the Tullys, but he wasn’t going to let Gregor rage about freely as he did in his youth. The sealing of the deal happened before the Queen’s cool departure; a last threat. 

_”See it done, dog. Or your dear brother will.”_

The days of finding servants’ mangled bodies were over. Of course, Gregor hadn’t stopped at the serving girls and stable boys. 

No, the bastard wasn’t happy until his mother, father, and younger sister were dead. Why Sandor was left alive, he may never know. But the scars he wore now reminded him quite firmly of the savagery Gregor had at his command; any love for his older brother that might have remained in spite of his crimes was burned out of him the day his face had been ruthlessly pinned upon the hearth. 

Ah, but that was another thing that earned the target for the night his ire. She was shapely with a woman’s curves and charms; wide eyes, full mouth, and a heart shaped arse that would bring lesser men to their knees with want. It was a wonder she wasn’t already bent over one of the tables there, or warming some soldier’s bed. 

Women despised him, and he mostly felt the same; hoping for anything but scorn and fear from the fairer sex had proved too painful. The more beautiful they were, the more hated them. The red-gold of her hair reminded him of fire dancing and the muscle in his jaw ticked. 

He found no pleasure in murdering a woman who could not defend herself, but it was necessary to ensure his brother remained locked in his cage. The death the Hound would give her this night would be merciful in comparison to what the Mountain would have done to her. His gnarled, ruined face gave a horrible skeleton grin at the thought of him, Sandor fucking Clegane, being a deliverance of mercy. 

He waited until all had gone quiet near the wee hours of the morning. He was pleased that his target had not gone up the rickety, creaky stairs to the rooms. It would be hard for a man of his size to stealthily make it up a flight of stairs and back down again - and scaling the outside of the building was out. There were few branches or ropes capable of holding his considerable weight, and that was _without_ armor. 

The woman curled her small frame up in front of the fireplace, showing no signs of fatigue. Of course the little wench was nocturnal; most common women were. 

The likelihood of there being a fight he couldn’t handle had always been low, but he would prefer to make this as clean and quick as possible. A sure, single swing to end the little woman’s life and he could be on his way to drown this long night out in more wine in his rooms at the Red Keep. 

He wondered idly if he hadn’t been looking for excuses to spare this woman’s life. What could she have done to have her death all but guaranteed by his hand? It was unlikely she had wronged the Queen personally; instead of opening her throat in some grubby inn Sandor would have been tasked to fetch her and bring her to the Black Cells. It was more likely the girl knew too much, or her murder would serve as a message to someone. But it didn’t really matter did it? The order was given and like the good, loyal dog he was, he would obey - just as he always had. 

The leash he wore was chafing and growing shorter by the day. Soon, he had no doubt, the Lannister cunts would hang him with it. But what could an old dog from a minor house and no influence do? A sword was only good against living men; he could not slash away the words that could kill him at court just as easily as any sword through the heart would. Only a dogged sense of survival - and the promise of revenge on his brother that it contained within - bade him to approach the woman slowly, hand on the hilt of his dagger. The broadsword sheathed at his side would take too long to draw and was ultimately unnecessary. There was no need to cut her in half. Just slash her pretty throat and be done with. 

He squatted to embrace her from behind as a lover might; she even smiled, leaning back into him as if he were her man. This struck him as odd, but his determination to end her life wavered only slightly in surprise. It wasn’t until she spoke that he outright froze, stark shock rippling across his scarred face. 

“Took you long enough. I was starting to think you’d never take the bait.” 

He feels the tiny prick of a dagger at his thigh, ready to slice open the artery there if he gives any trouble. Slowly, he withdraws the dagger and sets it upon the ground. The redheaded heathen - Seven Hells, he hates gingers even more now - takes her sweet time to do the same. She has the gall to turn to him fully, and pin him with a cheshire smile. “Lord Varys sends his best.” A small, pale hand comes up to waggle a piece of sealed parchment between them. “We have much to discuss.”


End file.
